


Controlled by the Pull of Another

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 04:25:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2374448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Bonnaire's plot is foiled, and the three of them return to his room - it becomes clear that Porthos is in need of some comfort. (Coda fic for 1x03)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Controlled by the Pull of Another

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jlarinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlarinda/gifts).



> Good lord, it's been a long time since I've been able to write something... Been suffering a bit of a writer's block, and this has been something I've been writing for the better part of a month. At this point, I'm just ready to post it and be done with it, if only for something to have completed. 
> 
> Written for the prompt "Oh shit you almost died", and specifically for 1x03 coda of a Porthos sandwich in the OT3, since so much fic focuses on Athos being comforted, or Aramis being comforted/needy. I wanted to try my hand at Porthos getting all the attention and comfort. I wish I could have done the prompt more justice, but what can you do. I might come back to try to revisit/rewrite it in the future. 
> 
> In the meantime, I hope you enjoy.

And then they push him down onto his back – deceptively gentle, Aramis’ hand on his back, supporting him down, Athos’ hand a steadying presence on his chest. He lets them handle him as they see fit, goes down without a fight – without so much as a playful comment. He’s quiet, and that’s perhaps the worst part of all. Porthos shifts up a little so that he’s sitting up rather than just lying flat on the bed, small as it is. But beyond that, he does not protest. 

“Now then,” Aramis says. “You just relax. We’ll get the wine.” 

Porthos says nothing, not quite curling into himself, but not moving, either. Aramis and Athos really can’t expect much else with that – if only because of the events of the last few days have left them a little uncertain on how to approach the situation. An unhappy Porthos, simply, is unacceptable. But at the same time, they cannot blame him for the unhappiness. 

These are the kinds of situations that Aramis hates. Porthos, always laughing, always vibrant – was the one to counterweigh Aramis and Athos in their sadder, haunted moments. Anyone who would dare to upset Porthos was likely to get a bullet in the back of the head for his troubles, either issued from Aramis’ gun or from Athos’. Although they rarely spoke of it, it was an unspoken thing – an unhappy Porthos is unacceptable, always. And although Bonnaire had found justice in their treason, now the melancholy seems to have captured him yet again despite that slight surge of triumph and happiness at the conclusion of their plot. And in that moment, Aramis hates Bonnaire with a blind, reckless abandon, even worse than the moment his plots were revealed, even worse than when he saw that rage, that pain, on Porthos’ face. 

Porthos glances up and finds Athos and Aramis still hovering, must see their concern apparent on their faces. He blinks once, takes in the nervous energy crackling off of Aramis, the quiet, stifling concern from Athos. He offers a wan smile, even in these moments seeking a way to reassure. “What? I’m fine.” 

But there is a tremor in his smile – because of the chill in the early spring air, perhaps, or to the slight twinges of pain that still touch at his shoulder. And it is what Athos and Aramis dread, to see that look in his eyes – not pushing them away, never pushing them away, but determined to act as if all is the past now. But Athos and Aramis both know how deeply the past drags onto Porthos. His smile is brittle, doesn’t fit his face. And there is nothing more painful to look at then this. 

Porthos looks empty – uncertain. It doesn’t suit him, will never suit him – not Porthos, who is always vibrant, always laughing, always enjoying life. The concern must shudder through both Athos and Aramis, because Porthos looks away for a moment, breathing out. 

“Porthos,” Aramis says quietly.

“I was a fool,” Porthos says, quietly, voice heavy and fatigued even with those simple words. And Aramis moves closer to him, fingers sliding across his cheeks, thumbs guiding along his jaw as he speaks. “It’s strange,” he says, and he doesn’t sound angry so much as defeated, or perhaps just flat. “Usually it’s you two fucking up.”

Aramis, under any other circumstance, would protest to that. Instead, it’s Athos who says, “You couldn’t have known.” 

“I wanted to go with him,” Porthos says, miserably. Athos unwinds himself from his chair and moves over to his side, stands behind Porthos and touches his shoulder. “I thought about it, at least,” he corrects, glancing up at Aramis who must have made a face at the confession. “It sounded like a good life. I should have known.” 

“You couldn’t have known,” Athos says again, more fiercely this time – like the words themselves are causing him physical pain to say. Undoubtedly seeing his own shadows reflected back in Porthos’ stance. 

Porthos closes his eyes. When he looks up again, it’s with a dark, intent expression. Aramis, voice slightly strained, merely murmurs his name, reaches to take one of his hands and curl their fingers together. Athos, more restrained in his movements, mindful of the wound still on Porthos' shoulder, touches at his back and the back of his neck, just lets his fingers trace along the bumps of his spine. Slowly, the tension bleeds from Porthos’ shoulders. 

“You know neither Athos nor I can rest easy when you are like this,” Aramis says quietly, cupping his cheek with his other hand, squeezing their hands together in the other. When it looks as if Porthos will protest, he shakes his head again. “But that does not mean we want you to fake your cheer or pretend your sadness doesn’t exist. Merely… allow us to help you.” 

Porthos smiles faintly, although it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Porthos closes his eyes again after a moment, and sighs out, and Aramis brushes his hand back over his cheek and into his hair, briefly, leaning up and pressing his forehead to his and breathing out to match his breath, his lungs filling with only Porthos. 

“Whatever you need,” Aramis says, and when he draws back, he finds Athos hovering – unable or unwilling to say that he feels the same, but the sentiment clear in his eyes as he looks at Porthos. Athos reaches out and touches his shoulder, and Porthos looks up at him – and nods a little, understanding perfectly without Athos ever having to say the words he so often fumbles over. It’s clear on his face. 

And then, just barely, Porthos relaxes again – and it’s enough to set both Aramis and Athos at ease. Aramis is gentle as he places a tender, reverent kiss to Porthos’ shoulder, his lips quirked up into a tiny smile as he looks at him. 

And then he looks up at Athos, eyebrows lifting. 

Aramis shifts away to make room as Athos, sighing out just barely, cups Porthos’ face and kisses him gently – obeying Aramis’ silent suggestion. Aramis is at Porthos’ feet, hands on his knees, looking up at him with a gentle expression. Athos’ own shoulders lower a little when Porthos kisses him – Porthos, wide hands cupping Athos’ jaw, fingers at his cheeks, thumbs brushing along his jaw line, kissing like he always does, with everything he has, deep and steady. And Athos melts into the touch. Just as he always does, and just as he always pretends he doesn’t. 

Porthos breathes out against his mouth and Aramis runs his hands over his thighs, watches them kiss, watches the way that, even now, Porthos attempts to care for them before himself – watches the way he kisses Athos as if trying to give Athos life again, as if that gentleness won’t feel like a punch to the gut for Athos, watches the way Porthos shifts his hand around blindly for a moment until he finds Aramis’ hair and curls tightly, anchoring Aramis down. Aramis closes his eyes to it, to the sheer, heavy weight of his heart that bursts simply looking at him and knowing, without a doubt, that even now Porthos seeks to comfort the two of them before seeking comfort for himself. 

He sits up on his knees, leans in and kisses Porthos’ throat, smiles a little when he can feel the gasp of his breath beneath his lips. He whispers, quietly, to the line of his jaw, “We’ve got you, darling. You’re alright.” 

And Porthos knows it instinctively. His hand is shaking a little in Aramis’ hair, and perhaps under any other circumstance, he’d be embarrassed by it – but instead he simply breathes out, kisses Athos deeper, lets Athos’ hands rest upon his broad shoulders and stay there. He turns his head slightly, seeking Athos, seeking to kiss him deeper – and Athos sighs out to meet him, kissing the corner of his mouth and then his lips, and then twisting into his embrace with a certain kind of fierce protectiveness that translates itself simply through the clench of his fingers against Porthos’ shoulder – just the one, to avoid the injury on the other. 

“You really,” Porthos sighs out, “You really don’t have to worry about me so much.”

“You almost died,” Athos says, quietly. Aramis doesn’t have to say anything else after that.

Porthos blinks at them both in surprise, seems to finally – _finally_ understand the heart of their attentions. His expression shifts after that, looks between the two of them, that deep searching look that always leaves Aramis and Athos both feeling overly exposed. 

And then Porthos seems to understand – that desperation they feel, that bone-chilling horror that they’d almost lost him, and that sweet, painful relief that he was still there with them. He nods a little. 

“Stay here with me, then,” Porthos says, quietly. 

“We can do that,” Athos murmurs gently, and touches Porthos’ cheek – his expression heavy, undoubtedly thinking of the last few days. Aramis nudges his elbow gently against Athos’, and smiles when their eyes meet. 

They settle down beside him, one on either side of Porthos. Aramis makes no qualms about cuddling up to him, pillowing his head on his chest, and Porthos sighs out quietly, his hand lifting to curl idly into Aramis’ hair. Athos is gentler, lying down beside him, mindful of the injured shoulder, and merely places a comforting hand on Porthos’ stomach – present, but not oppressive. Porthos sighs out, and Athos feels the rise and fall of his breath. 

“It’s alright,” Aramis murmurs against his chest, ear pressed to the steady beat of his heart inside his chest. “We’ve got you.” 

Porthos sighs out and sits up, kissing Aramis – openmouthed and desperate. Athos tugs at his own shirt, too warm pressed up near the two of them, and watches Porthos and Aramis for a moment – watches the way Porthos cups Aramis by his jaw, keeps him close, keeps the kiss both desperate and unreasonably gentle, sweeping softly into Aramis’ mouth, coaxing out the soft moans that Aramis always makes when he likes the kiss, melting into him. Even now, still taking care of the two of them before himself. 

When they pull back, Aramis strokes his hands over his face, making soothing, gentle noises that manages to make Porthos’ expression crumble a little with the weight of the affection, as well as smile at the attempts. Aramis smiles in return, gentle and eyes shining. 

“You’re alright,” Aramis whispers, drawing back and pulling Athos in, instead. Athos goes, shifting up closer to Porthos. 

Porthos laughs, lightly – but with that same hard edge of bitterness. “I must seem pitiful to you both.” 

“Nonsense,” Aramis says just as Athos replies, “Not at all.” 

Porthos laughs again, but it’s softer this time. Athos touches at his cheek, brushes his thumb gently along the slope of the scar on his face, and Porthos turns his head a little to smile at him. 

“Alright, point made,” Porthos says quietly. “Now stop treating me like I’m going to break.” He turns his head, kisses the palm of Athos’ hand, and says, “Just kiss me already.” 

Athos can hardly disobey such a command, and leans in, kissing Porthos gently, slanting his mouth across his, slowly, very slowly, deepening it. Aramis watches them, and it makes the heat curl inside of Athos, twisting up tight inside of his stomach as he kisses Porthos slowly, at first, almost too gentle to be called a kiss. 

But then Porthos makes a soft sound, curls his fingers into the collar of Athos’ shirt, and draws him in deeper, deepening the kiss, his knuckles clenched tight into his clothes to keep him tethered there, pulled down into Porthos’ center of gravity. 

After that, it is a blur between the three of them – Aramis and Athos both taking turns kissing Porthos until they could draw out his sighs and his gasps, the other using his hands to strip Porthos of his clothes – careful and mindful of the wound still stitched deep into his back. They shed him of this clothes, and Aramis kisses him deeply, Athos’ hand skimming down his chest, touching at every scar that Aramis has lovingly formed and shaped and soothed over the ragged skin. When Aramis draws back from the kiss, Athos ducks down and bites at his bottom lip, sweeps in with a deeper, more thorough kiss, and Aramis’ hands cup at Porthos’ hips, thumbs tracing along the sharp jut of his hipbones. 

“We’ve got you,” Aramis murmurs into Porthos’ shoulder, kissing and sliding his lips over the tensed muscles there, glancing up to watch Porthos and Athos kiss. Watches the way Porthos’ face clenches up for half a moment, not in pain but in an overwhelming stab of emotion, and Aramis can’t help but stare at the way they kiss, can’t help but stare as he drags one hand down his chest, down his stomach, and cups him through the loose-fitting breeches he wears loose at his hips. 

He watches, mesmerized, by the way Porthos moans, face going blank with pleasure as Aramis tugs down his breeches and curls his fingers around his cock, stroking it to full hardness. 

“Athos,” Aramis says, once Athos draws back from kissing Porthos. Porthos, for his part, seems dazed, and yet still reaches out, touching at Aramis’ hair, strokes his other hand down Athos’ back – even now, trying to seek their pleasure before his own, doing exactly what he knows they like. Aramis sighs out, momentarily distracted, and Athos arches at the touch. But then Aramis clears his throat, one hand curling gently around Porthos’ wrist, keeping his hand in place. “Athos,” he says again, “Would you be so kind as to fetch the oil?” 

Athos gives him something of a withering look – lifting an eyebrow at the formalness, and Aramis just grins and shrugs, and shares a look with Porthos. He finds Porthos smiling at him lightly, and it’s enough to warm Aramis from the inside out. 

Athos unceremoniously tosses the bottle to Aramis, who catches it easily and uncorks the top, slicking his fingers up. 

“You don’t have to,” Porthos says, frowning, and sits up a little – not quite flinching at the injury to his shoulder, but his movements betray his complete awareness of the injury.

“Nonsense,” Athos and Aramis say together, Aramis’ voice light and playful, Athos slightly scolding. 

Porthos breathes out, and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, alright, fine. You overprotective fools.”

And then he spreads his legs a little, and Aramis grins a little, partly bravado for the sake of putting Porthos at ease, for the sake of putting Porthos somewhere closer to his normal banter. He strokes his oil-slicked fingers over his cock and strokes down lower, and Porthos gasps out – and Aramis watches him, captured with how beautiful he looks in that moment. Athos’ blunt fingernails drag along his stomach and up his chest, not nearly enough to leave marks – in fact, almost light enough to make Porthos laugh from the tickling nature of the touch. 

All the same, Porthos flexes up between the spaces above them, and Athos’ hands are gentle on his shoulders as he holds him down. “Careful.” 

“Always am,” Porthos says, and the unspoken _unlike you two_ goes unsaid but not unacknowledged, as Athos smiles faintly and Aramis scoffs, sliding his fingers down against him, stroking without penetrating, simply teasing. 

Aramis sets the leisurely pace , teasing into Porthos with practiced ease, fingers slicked and spread inside of him, Athos sliding his hands over Porthos but also holding him in place to prevent further injury. Porthos shifted a little, hips wriggling, and Athos simply watched him – mesmerized by the way that Porthos at once seemed perfectly in control and yet just a hair’s breath away from falling away entirely. Aramis moves with practiced ease, knowing Porthos’ body almost as well as he knows Athos’ or his own, and he adds another finger just as Porthos’ breath goes steady again, draws out a soft curse from him, draws out the smallest of smiles as he’s stretched out beneath the two of them. 

“Now then, my darling,” Aramis says, cheerfully, as he works, three fingers pressed inside of Porthos and working him open around the soft, gentle sounds Porthos keeps hissing out, “Who would you rather have inside of you? Athos here or myself? I am, after all, an incredibly gracious lover.” Athos gives him a look and Aramis concedes, “Although Athos certainly has his moments, truly.” 

“You’re both too gentle with me,” Porthos says after a pause, not so much an accusation as a casual statement. 

“It’s been a while since we’ve had you,” Aramis says lightly, for it’s easier said than the truth. 

For all the bickering and scolding between the two of them, sometimes harsher than strictly necessary, Athos and Aramis have only ever been protective and gentle with Porthos, as if by some secret agreement between the two of them that Porthos is a phenomenally greater and more worthy man than the two of them combined and thus must be protected at all costs. Not that Aramis would not go to the ends of the earth for Athos, as well, as he would for Porthos – and as he knows both would do for him, perhaps contrary to their better judgment – but it seems it’s become something of an unacknowledged truth between himself and Athos: that Porthos is simply what they strive for, and always feel they fall too short of. 

Athos runs his hands down over Porthos’ thighs and, indeed, his touch his light. 

“Regardless of what you might be thinking, my darling Porthos,” Aramis tuts, “You have yet to answer my question.” 

“I think you’re far better suited keeping that mouth of yours occupied,” Porthos says at last and gestures somewhat obscenely to his cock, where it sits against his stomach, neglected but still hard from Aramis’ efforts and Athos’ light touches against his chest and shoulders. 

Aramis grins and twists his wrist, and Porthos gasps out a short, fluttering moan. 

When he speaks again, his voice has gone all rumbly – like gravel and grit. “Fuck…” 

“That’s what I thought,” Aramis says, entirely too smug – again, more bravado than actually felt, his eyes betraying him when he glances up at Porthos to determine he’s alright – his eyes soft, gentle, and full of love. He looks at Athos. “Well then, go on and make yourself useful.” 

Athos rolls his eyes at the tone, and elbows Aramis out of the way before shifting between Porthos’ legs, running his hands down his thighs. Porthos sighs, meets his eyes, and smiles a little. Athos manages a small one in return, and hopes his eyes are sufficient enough to convey his own concern and regard for him. He knows that Porthos understands him better without words than any other man he’s ever known. 

Athos cups the back of his knees, lifts his legs with an unbearable care, settling between his legs and looking up at him. Aramis watches the way Porthos meets Athos’ eyes, the way they look at each other. And then Athos nods his head just barely and looks down, and works his way into Porthos, who sighs out, arches just slightly – until Aramis places a constricting hand upon his chest to keep him in place – and slides into Porthos with considerable care and practice. 

The pace that Athos sets is gentle, almost brutal in its care. Porthos shifts and slides his hips, moving until he can meet Athos’ pace, respond to it in time, rock his hips down to meet his cock, his body shuddering and going pliant underneath the hold on his legs, the drag of Aramis’ hands on his chest, fingers curling around his cock and stroking in time to Athos’ thrusts. 

“You’re alright,” Aramis whispers, pressing kisses down to his chest and working his way downward. Porthos moans, and Aramis smiles, dragging his teeth a little. “We’ve got you.”

“It’s just us here,” Athos agrees, his hold tight on Porthos’ legs, driving his hips up and pressing deep into him, biting back his own moan as Porthos begins to respond to him in earnest, thrusting down to meet him. His movements are clumsy at first – both of them are, so unused to it, so used to Porthos being the one to press them both down, to drag his hands and cock over them, to press into them with practiced skill. Still, it’s good, and Porthos’ moans increase in volume and frequency the more Athos moves. 

“Look at you,” Aramis breathes, brushing his hand down Porthos’ chest, allowing him to arch his hips slightly to meet the gentle slide of Athos’ cock, but keeps a mindful eye on his shoulder as he leans in and kisses over his face, tracing his lips over his scar, watches Porthos look at him before closing his eyes to the attention. “You’re so beautiful.”

Porthos makes a soft sound of protest, but is quickly distracted by an ardent thrust of Athos’ hips, hands sliding over his hips and stomach, fingers gliding along the underside of his cock before moving back to holding his thighs open as he rocks into him. 

“And you’re amazing,” Aramis continues, voice gentle and honeyed, “And we love you for it. We love you as we do no one else.” Porthos makes a soft sound and Aramis kisses him, shushing him gently, hand curling into his hair. “As we do no one else. You are a cut above the rest, my love. We love you more than anything else. Don’t we, Athos?” 

Athos pauses in his movements, and Aramis turns to look at him – knowing that the silence is not for lack of love for the both of them, but just Athos’ way, Athos’ struggles with finding those words, weighted and meaning something more than he’s ever truly able to express to his satisfaction. Aramis knows he is thinking of the woman, from long ago, the one he never speaks to Aramis or Porthos about, but for whom his heart still beats. Today, he seems more haunted than he’d normally be, but Aramis says nothing and waits – knows that Athos will speak, not from hesitation, but more from collecting the words that rattle around inside of his chest, a chest that Athos would always claim is empty, but that Porthos and Aramis both know is overfull. 

“… Indeed,” Athos says, quietly. 

Porthos breathes out, not quite a sob, but clearly choked up, looking up at the two of them and then having to close his eyes to the force of it all, swallowing thickly and nodding his head. Aramis’ fingers curl with his, holding them down, leaning in and kissing him with complete surety, his lips curved into a small, gentle smile. And Athos, meanwhile, rocks into him with an overwhelming gentleness, his hands stroking over Porthos’ hips in a quiet kind of contentment. 

“Just fuck me already,” he says, voice thick. 

Aramis barks out a laugh and nods, ducking his head, kissing down his stomach, curls his mouth around the tip of his cock and suckles – obeying the command from earlier to keep his mouth busy – his hands splayed out over his stomach. 

Athos slows his pace down further, drawing back very slowly and pushing back in with that same, overwhelming patience – a deep burn curling up tight inside of Porthos. 

Under the ministrations of both Athos and Aramis, it isn’t long before Porthos starts moving more desperately, breathes out harshly, and comes in Aramis’ mouth. Aramis makes a soft, keening sound of pleasure and drinks him down, ducking down to take the cock deep into his mouth, Athos’ own movements short and shallow to accommodate Aramis’ attentions. 

Porthos writhes, gasps out, and his hands fumble to hold onto the both of them, grasping blindly at their arms and hair. 

“We have you,” Aramis whispers once he pulls back, dropping a wet kiss to his stomach, and Porthos nods his head. “So don’t ever leave us.”

Porthos opens his eyes at that, sees the way they both look at him in that moment – understands, concretely and without doubt, how painful the last few days have been for them, too, to see him lie out, injured, nearly dead, Athos’ eyes haunted with the hypothetical, Aramis’ expression heavy with the knowledge of what was almost nearly unavoidable. 

He touches at Aramis’ hair, slides his other hand over Athos’ – and holds tight to them, smiling up at them – finally feeling like himself again, light, weightless, unrestrained.

“You two can’t get rid of me that easily,” he says, grinning, and delights in Athos’ smile, in Aramis’ soft, gasping breath of a laugh.


End file.
